


Giving up

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, References to Torture, Suicidal Ideation, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:47:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4131469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Maedhros, though he had contemplated it many times, giving up had never really been an option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giving up

Sometimes, in the black of the night, after the children and his brother were asleep, he thought of giving up.

He did not have that option of course, he knew. 

But sometimes he thought of it still, the abstract concept rather than the action itself, for it seemed safer somehow. All the times he could have. All the times he didn’t.

The voices that whispered to him in the dark dungeons of the enemy, when he had slumped to his knees, in blinding, crushing pain, dragging him up to his feet again by cruel hooked claws, piercing his flesh.  _Did you think we could let you go so easily? The fun is only just beginning!_

The cliff where he had cried out for death, the wind whipping his voice away into the howling of a pale ghost worn through by pain. Wanting only an end to this, one quick arrow and his life’s blood draining away in exchange for some silence. Instead there had been gentle, familiar hands, pulling him back into the world. _Never give up Maitimo, my Russandol_ , a voice whispered in his memories, sweeping his hair back tenderly from his forehead, holding his pathetically weak body in strong arms.  _Promise me you will never give up, my beloved one_.

And he had promised, because how could he do otherwise? 

Many years later a battle, the fight that was supposed to end it all, quickly, cleanly… it was supposed to be the ultimate triumph of their people.

It had turned to blood and mud and splintered bones, and the laughter of foul things in the roiling smoke.

Of course it had.

They had all changed then, because how could they stay the same?

The Oath had been the thing that kept him anchored to the world after, that kept him standing and speaking and killing, sending letters with increasingly demanding words, getting nothing but scorn in return. He did it mechanically now. It came easily. He did not know what giving up would be, what form it could take. 

He carried on, feeling his heart beat out the rhythm of their new lives. Fight, kill, fail, repeat. Survive. 

There was no giving up, not for him. 

The thought if it made him weary, and yet he could not sleep.


End file.
